Page 163 of Wrong Pucking Player

To wake up in the arms of a man who trusts you enough to share one bed in a state of vulnerability.

So many take advantage of this, but how precious it is to someone like me. For someone who hasn’t gotten the chance to hit the morning hours and still have the partner they slept with the night before cuddled next to them.

They all get out of there before the sun rises. As if I’m a layer of sin they can’t wait to wash away so the rest of the world doesn’t see.

Buzzing follows with a low ring tone of ‘We Will Rock You.’ It’s not too loud but holds enough familiarity to make Oscar’s eyes further squeeze before he grunts.

“I’m not here,” he mumbles and surprisingly hugs me closer to him. “Sleep…ing… Andrews. Call back… later…”

He’s clearly talking in his sleep; his breathing beginning to slow down almost instantly.

“Armani?” I quietly mutter against his skin, but it doesn’t make him stir. He only further relaxes as sleep takes him away. At this point, I don’t mind.

I may not know what time it is, but if I have to call in sick today, so be it. After everything that happened yesterday, I’m sure I could feign still being sick and even ask Coach Cyrus to write me a note to present to Coach Johnson.

If Wyatt and I weren’t on bad terms…

Just the thought makes me bite my bottom lip.

I don’t want to mourn the looming reality of Wyatt not being in my life anymore. The mere thought gives me a sinking feeling of anxiety, and I don’t want that tainting this precious moment.

So, I push it to the back of my mind.

Some would say it’s toxic to do such, and maybe it is.

But I don’t care.

Not today.

For one fucking day, I just want to not give a fuck.

No fucks to give.

Just to enjoy the peak of the moment.

Snuggling even closer to Oscar has him hugging me even tighter. It’s as though he unconsciously knows I need his warmth and how I embrace his unknowing generosity.

Before I realize it, I’m drifting asleep, dreaming of snowfall, teal skates, and laughter.

Pink mittens, long blonde hair, genuine smiles of love from adults who see me as someone special.

I laugh and spin, skating on the ice, my mitten in another’s. Someone a little older. A friend I look up to.

We skate. We laugh. We spin around and around.

Until there’s a loud noise.

I flinch out of sleep, and the rumble of a groan that tickles my ears follows with a mutter.

“Mittens.”

“Meow.”

Muffin, aka Mittens, has gotten away with knocking something off the nightstand.

“Fuck. I bet that’s my phone,” Armani groans and lets out an exhale. “Andrews?”

I’m not sure I want to reply yet. Deep down, I’m fighting to grasp whatever pieces of the dream I just had. I can barely manage to remember the smiling adults and the boy who held my pink mitten hand. All the faces were covered in shadows, as though I hadn’t earned the right to see their faces.

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